Ar Éirinn Ní Neosfainn Cé Hí
by Marisol Akyri
Summary: Tom Branson finds himself in Downton Abbey a few years earlier. 1910 to be exact. How would the unpredictable journey that is Tom and Sybil change, and will their love grow stronger as a result? (Eventual AU).
1. Chapter 1

_Near Banbridge town, in the County Down, One morning in July._

_Down a __bóithrín __green came a sweet __cailín__, __And she smiled as she passed me by-_

Yes it was July wasn't it?

The heat was the first indication, the summer of 1910 presenting itself to be much warmer than the standard, temperate climate Yorkshire often offered year-round. Taking care not to let the heat stick to the only suit a certain Tom Branson had carefully vested himself in that morning, he couldn't help but give a small sigh at his appending trek. It was but three days prior that in the post came a letter of inquiry, in response to his own first letter sent the week before. It was all because of an advertisement in the newspaper for a particular job-opening; all applicants without prior experience or knowledge of a certain modern invention "need not apply". This wasn't a problem for Tom who had all but jumped from the small table in the corner of some nameless pub in London, rushing back upstairs to his narrow, rented room to begin writing a letter of interest.

Tom Branson (previously of Dublin, Ireland), found himself on this side of the Irish Sea just the year before. He stepped off the boat in Liverpool with nothing but a trunk filled to capacity with various books. Tom recalled the struggle that took place back at his mother's, who was just baffled at her middle son's choice of belongings.

* * *

"_You'd be running off to England, God knows why, and plan ta make yer fortune with a crate of books at yer side? You be daft boy! At least pack somethin' that will be useful…" His mother sat at the kitchen table in the humble house of Branson, arms crossed with her all too familiar frown of displeasure upon learning of Tom's choice of luggage. Three bedrooms with a parlor, kitchen and outdoor but well-kept privy instilled Aileen Branson with a sense of pride. While it would never be a brownstone or some 'posh' flat, Aileen knew she provided well for her four children plus one. The one being the drunken lout who claimed paternity on three of her children. Devin Branson was a man who came and went as the tide which bashed against the Dublin docks, being more a stranger to his own family that the pubs frequently visited in a five block radius. It was her belief of being a fine Catholic role model to the children that she never pursued divorce, instead simply pushing Devin out of the family's life. The fourth child who resided with the Branson's was really more a cousin in truth, Ian Murray but two years younger than Tom and only five when he first arrived at the Branson house. His mother and father had perished in two different circumstances, the former a disease unchecked and the latter an unfortunate drunken run-in with a British soldier. Upon his father's death Ian found himself dropped at Aileen's doorstep, and taken in by his mother's sister without a word edgewise. Tom had thus grown up closer with Ian than any other sibling, the age difference between himself and his older brother too great and the fact his younger sibling was a _girl _the reasons why. _

"_Ma for the last time, I'm not looking for a fortune." An eighteen year old Tom kicked the trunk, his features exasperated at the return of this argument. "I want ta be able to help the family. You and Ian and Colleen. God knows where Kieran is, although the fact he's not once bothered to look back since he turned eighteen is sign enough fer sure." _

"_So says this now eighteen year old son o' mine who wants ta boat off to a different country entirely! At least Kieran has the right mind ta stay where he belongs. Wit' his own people." Aileen narrowed her eyes, gaze unwavering from Tom. "If you had just stayed at Martin's shop like you have the past few years nothin' would be wrong. You had a good job there Tommy. You know yer mind is good enough wit' cars-_

"'_Cept I don't want ta be lying on my back wrenchin' an engine for some rich man's car all my life. There's a future fer me Ma. I need to find ta find it." "But not here." _

_Tom inhaled sharply, closing his eyes before opening them once more at his mother. "No Ma. Not here, not right now." _

_His words stood between them, for even Aileen couldn't argue. Ireland was not the place to make a living unless you were born lucky, and lived in those posh town homes or had been a trading family for generations by now. Tom's odds were well enough to make better money in England, and be able to send back more to his mother than he ever did working at the mechanics in their neck of Dublin. _

_A moment passed between the two, before his mother lowered her gaze down to the trunk. Of course Tom would miss his mother, the house he had grown up in, his younger sister and most importantly Ian. However there was nothing Aileen Branson could say to dissuade her Tom from changing his mind. He was stubborn since the day of his birth, and so set in his ways once that sharp mind of his was made up._

"_But did you have ta pack only books?"_

* * *

A small smile appeared, followed by a shake of his head. No one in the family ever truly understood his love of reading, who at eighteen when he left was already well optioned and knowledgeable about a great deal of aspects both historical as well as political. He liked to think it gave him an element of surprise in the sea of this country that was the Englishman. Nothing like firing back a quicksilver retort in a street side rally, shocking all those around him as soon as he opened his mouth and the accent spilled forth. No, letting your birth determine your ignorance was not a custom the Socialist Tom felt particularly inclined to follow.

He resumed his tune that had been broken by this retreat into his thoughts, the words of the well-known Irish ballad popping up into his mind as he whistled through his remaining walk. A great deal of the hill that led to his destination had already been traversed he was glad to notice, a finger tugging at the collar of his suit in the slightly stifling air.

___Oh she looked so sweet from her two bare feet__, __To the sheen of her nut brown hair. __  
__Such a coaxing elf, sure I shook myself-_

"To be sure I was really there…" As if on cue the whistle-turned-singing died down on his lips, as the last great bend of the path brought him forward first to a lawn of immense green. A well-maintained dirt path continued up to what he assumed would be his final destination, the enormous building in distance.

Yes Downton Abbey hadn't failed to shock this young man from Dublin. As he got closer Tom tried to count the windows as they came into focus, giving up only when he realized the entirety of the outside façade was embezzled both in the exceedingly numerous amount of glass panes as well as crown molding. It looked _rich_, and Tom couldn't help but give an inward sigh. The benefits and pay in working for such an estate would surely provide much well-needed income for Tom and his family back in Ireland, however it didn't escape him that the payoff would be having to instill himself in one of the highest levels of British society he had learned to look not well upon, back in Ireland as well as here.

_If the staff is even treated well to begin with… _

He wasn't naïve enough to believe that all those in possession of great riches treated those who served them day and night with care and payment even to services rendered. If the upper class of Ireland was anything to learn from, of course such levels of society would be looked upon with a jaded eye. He had heard stories of the Earl's fair treatment of his employees however, after inquiring at the inn located back in the village greeting the start of this long trail.

Tom gave the building a withering glance before resuming his walk, now in the direction of the back doors to the estate. He had an appointment with the leader of the staff, who was in fact the butler. Tom remembered the snort he gave upon reading the words of this man, his writing echoing the distinguished honor he felt all those who were to work for Downton should instill in their hearts. Oh he was grateful to be sure to have any interview offered after a year of odds and ends working in areas most definitely not akin to his few skills, however the idea that he was to report to a _butler_ for one of the richest families in Yorkshire… Who had even known butlers were real? He had always fancied such a figure as almost imaginary, as well as most of the tidings and going-ons of the upper class and serving staff life. So it was no surprise to knock on the wooden back door, wait but a minute or two, and find it opened by none other than a slightly portly man, tall with a gaze of silent determination second only to his mother. He wore a black coat of tails and silver trousers, properly ironed with not a thread out of place on the fabric as well as the silver hairs on his head. The gaze never fell, causing Tom to stiffen and straighten, a hand grabbing the cap on his head down to rest. He did however keep the man's stare, refusing the intimidation at hand.

"Tom Branson. And you must be Mr. Carson."

The clock kept ticking in the small office, Tom rubbing the handle of the delicate tea cup in his hands continuously with his fingers. The slightly feminine tea set was the third surprise of Downton Abbey and Mr. Carson. The first was how the man now sitting in front of him could make one feel ill at ease with nothing but a stern-set face and unblinking expression. After being let in he gave a small sigh of relief, realizing to follow Mr. Carson meant the man's back would finally be facing Tom. The second surprise was how small the staff truly seemed to be. Through the quick trek of the servant's halls Tom spied a table to his left, one that truly couldn't seat more than twenty at the most. Did it really take not that many people to properly care for the house and the family in which it resides? Maybe it was just a childless couple upstairs…

And now back to the present. With the teacups and kettle kept a brilliant white with blue flowers draping this way and that.

Tom brought the empty cup back to his lips for the third time now, devoid of tea left to drink exactly four sips ago.

"Well Mr. Branson, your references do seem to be in order as was stated in your letter. Of course there is the matter of your 'training'… Most recently in Liverpool six months ago at a service which features motor repairs and preceded by three years' work at a certain mechanic shop in… Dublin."

Tom brought the empty cup back down, nodding at Mr. Caron's findings, face impassive. His city of birth seemed to always leave a bad taste in any Englishman's mouth, the word growing increasingly bitter the further east and north from Liverpool and London you traveled. Not many Irish accents were heard in Yorkshire he figured.

_Away from your people. _Could always count on his Ma's voice to pop up unwanted.

"I must admit you're younger than his Lordship and myself were expecting. Eighteen?"

"Nineteen with twenty at the end of the year. But as you could well read Mr. Carson, I know what I'm doing. And how to drive an automobile."

"Hmn. Yes that was the position offered. Are you familiar with a Royce and Renault?"

"Those on top of the Sunbeam and Model T, and anything else that rolls on wheels and has an engine."

Tom didn't see the point of these questions. He knew what was asked of him and could provide. His references from Dublin and the shop in Liverpool detailed his strengths with a motor engine and its inner-workings. For Tom Branson nothing made more sense in his life than the automobile.

As a child he was the sort who would take apart anything that hummed or ticked, and was sure to include a rotating gear or small parts. The only reason his Ma hadn't boxed his ears to kingdom come was because of his equal ability to put the object back together again. Fiddling with mechanical items and the methodical patience required balanced out his own fiery temper, and allowed Tom to take a breather from the numerous scrapes Ian and himself often instigated or followed in their youth. Upon reaching his teenage years the next best thing to work on were the motorcars now seen even in the blocks away from the richest areas of the city. Many a weekend was spent dragging Ian into a junkyard to work his way through the abandoned metal innards and bodies, teaching himself from broken specimens the beginning of what would become a lifelong fascination with the automobile. Rolls Royce or Renault or even the American Model T, all of these metal exteriors gave way to a surprisingly similar interior. He found work at fifteen at his mother's friend Martin's shop, and from there the rest was history. As evident in his sitting in the small office of Mr. Carson this warm July early afternoon, sipping imaginary tea from an empty white and blue tea cup.

"His Lordship has just begun to embrace these automobiles, and as everyone else here we know not the proper care or maintenance expected. Or how to drive one. Of course his Lordship is not expected to learn how to drive one, and as such I asked you to come. Your letter of response was both well-informed from what I could gather about the area as well as presented itself in a very… honest evaluation of your skills. Even if it came off a little strong and sure of yourself."

Tom's left eyebrow rose up and his mouth settled into a firm line. _If by that you mean I told you exactly what I could do and how well I could do it._ _Leave it to some British butler to find that off-putting._

Tom was a little smug. Carried over from childhood.

Mr. Carson stood up then, and gave Tom a final look of scrutiny across the desk.

He didn't take his role as employer lightly and personally interviewed only the best candidates to bring personal recommendation to the Earl of Grantham. While the idea of a young Irish, well boy really, who had not been in England for but a year and a half certainly rang outside Carson's usual comfort zone, this Branson had come well equipped and sure of himself and his abilities. Pride in one's skills was also a trait Carson himself personally favored, and the spark behind Tom's eyes didn't go unnoticed. He wanted to work and seemed to have a head on his shoulders.

With that Carson broke his stare and shuffled the papers on the desk back into order, handing them back over to Tom who in turn placed the tea cup onto the surface. He rose up from the chair, and shook the hand that appeared but a moment later.

"I'm most certainly not his Lordship and cannot give the final word, but I will put in good favor towards your qualifications and abilities Mr. Branson. I'm sure you will hear from Downton very soon."

Carson strode over to the door and opened it. Tom followed suit, and glanced back at Carson. "I trust you can find the way back Mr. Branson. Good day."

With that the office was closed.

_Well that went well, _he thought, and instantly felt assured about this job. Even if he still had to wait for a final answer, Tom had a feeling the butler's word would be true in the end. The interview proved itself worthwhile even if Mr. Carson monopolized the conversation with questions and a certain seriousness to its nature. In some odd way he could respect that, and started down the hallway back to the door with a small smile. Small, but it was there.

* * *

It was that night in the pub of Grantham Arms that Tom remembered he still didn't know exactly who lived up in that mansion on the hill.

The bartender's reply didn't fail to surprise.

* * *

Tom stared up into the ceiling now, the bed sheet thin but at least devoid of any scratching sensation. Sleep was tugging at his eyes, yet his mind was still ever working in an endless flurry.

_Carson the Butler… Lord and Lady Grantham… and three daughters. _

Tom couldn't imagine living with three sisters back in Ireland, let alone three surely spoiled future Ladies. Their names alone were as posh as could be; Tom was sure his mother would have given a scoff upon hearing them. Well the first two at least.

_Lady Mary and Lady Edith. _

Tom shook his head. Why people felt the need to make names as boring as possible, and then repeat them through generations was beyond him. He chalked it up as British aristocracy at its finest. One of the daughters did have a much more refreshing name at least. Not too stuck up that could stand on its own, to the beat of a different drummer.

He wondered if he would meet her. He wondered if she was anything like he mused in these last moments before sleep overtook his senses.

* * *

Wow I haven't written anything in ages. But whenever I read an amazing fanfic the urge just sticks in my brain until I let it out. (Love's Journey by Yankee Countess). I have a tentative plot I hope to continue. I want to contribute my own version of the wonderful adventure and love story that is Sybil and Tom. So here goes nothing. If you haven't guessed though, year differences might be a thing. Well they will be. Tom comes to Downton in 1910 instead of 1913. He's 19 going on 20. There is a method to this planning. I hope you enjoyed and look out for the next chapter.

The song Tom whistles/sings is _Star of the County Down_. .


	2. Chapter 2

The second Tom glanced at the small, dusty mirror adorning the bathroom of his new cottage, he couldn't resist a roll of his eyes. It was very... Green.

The afternoon following Tom's interview with Mr. Carson a letter was sent through the post to a 'Mr. Branson' at Grantham Arms. As the butler predicted Tom was offered the position of sole mechanic to the entirety of Lord Grantham's garage. Yet what was that line at the bottom of the letter?

_Well ya did good Tom. Can't wait to write back to Ma on how her middle son is now mechanic AND personal chauffeur to the Earl of Grantham's household, can't ya?_

He had to feel a bit undermined at the sudden development that was present at the bottom of Mr. Carson's letter. The advertisement never specifically requested for the position of chauffeur, just someone knowledgable in all things automobiles and mechanical. There _was_ the additional line of knowing how to drive... But wouldn't anyone figure to truly understand a car you had to be able to drive it? Maybe that was just Tom.

So here he was in a livery of forest green, golden buttons adorning a top coat that stopped roughly at his hips. The cap atop his head was as equally green and foolish, the only saving grace that his trousers weren't also green to match. They were a dark charcoal. Underneath his coat was a black vest, white dress shirt, and the trademark black bow tie of service the upper class seemed to love assigning to their work staff. He knew the indoor staff didn't have to put up with such a troublesome dress code, the few maids and males he had seen between the interview and return to Downton dressed in the much more conservative greys and whites of service. There was that poor teenager adorned in an outfit only slightly more ridiculous than Tom's current dress. A footman he was, and had to wear tails and white gloves of all things!

Tom gripped his own pair of gloves in his hands. At least these were a supple black leather. Probably his favorite part of the outfit. For what was there to love about the Irish driver dressed to the nine's as both chauffeur and leprechaun extraordinaire?

Tom was still left a little uncomfortable. He let out a sigh and began walking to the garage not thirty feet away from his cottage. The new shelter was something unexpected; Tom assumed he was going to have to find a small room in the village below or in the worst case scenario occupy a bed in the main house itself. Having a structure all to himself free of charge and right next to his work was a blessing, something Tom figured he should probably thank someone for. At some point.

For now Tom was stepping up into one of two of Lord Grantham's Renaults. There was also a sparkling Rolls Royce and Classic Model T near the back of the garage. The former was used in only special occasions he had learned, and the latter more for novelty's sake than anything. Guess you couldn't count on anyone with money to not find a way to spend their money all the time. The American car did have a special place in his heart though, being the first car that was fiddled on in a Dublin junkyard a few years back. Tom figured he could let that purchase slide.

With a purr the Renault rolled back out of the structure, until Tom reached over and parked the machine. Closing the garage doors with a snap he stepped back into the black automobile and began the ascent up the trail to the front of Downton Abbey.

The roads surrounding the estate were plentiful and wide, nearly all paths leading to either the back of the mansion where the garage was located or turning round about to the front of the main doors. Following the curving sweep Tom drove around the left side of the building, spying the a couple of figures standing right outside the front of the manor.

Tom pulled the Renault to a slow stop and park, and gave himself a mental grin at exactly how perfect that parking was. If he was to be labeled as a chauffeur these wealthy faces were going to witness the best driving they would ever hope to see.

Tom looked over to the right where the ever excitable Mr. Carson stood, back straight as a rod, eyes narrowed, and gave Tom an abrupt nod of his chin to motion him outside. Harnessing back the waves of self-consciousness as he was to leave the safe metal walls of the car, Tom opened the door and stepped out, boots shaking up the small earthen crumbs of dirt that had made up the road.

Carson brought up the left flank of the small procession, where to his left stood a man equally as grey in hair although a tad shorter, a brown suit gripping his figure. While the color was plain the detail was anything but, and even Tom could appraise that the waistcoat and gold pocket watch in which it housed would have reached a fair price indeed at the pawn shop. The man also stood with the air of dignity that one learns to grow up with and embrace, a presence that denotes the final words and actions were to always rest to his own. There was a bit of belly in the waist however.

Robert Crawley gave Tom a solemn nod, before glancing back to Carson. The voice that came forth was not as serious in tone as Tom expected, the wrinkles now evident at the corner of the man's brow and mouth surely laugh lines. Or just ordinary wrinkles.

"As expected Carson, I say you have chosen us a mighty fine chauffeur."

"I aim to please, your Lordship."

The Earl of Grantham turned back to Tom, who straightened up quickly as attention was once again directed to him. "Welcome to Downton Branson. We are happy to have you."

Tom began to nod his head, catching Carson's sharp glare almost instantaneously. He ripped the cap on his head as tactfully as able, and cleared his voice to speak.

"I'm very happy to be here...

-Carson's brow creeped even further south.

...Your Lordship." Tom ended on the balls of his feet, standing still and at attention never a strength of his. Tom's nerves weren't settled any more at having to address a man with such a title as _that_. Mister he could handle. Sir just as well. But Lordship this and Lady that? It was going to be an interesting process to be able to say those words without them rolling strange on his tongue. Maybe he should practice in front of the mirror?

Tom snapped back to attention as his mind had trailed off once more. Carson was now introducing the two female figures not noticed upon his drive up. Tom's face was set in an impassive mask as he followed the introductions to finally put faces to names.

The first girl was closer to his younger sister in age if he had to take a guess, and radically different in appearance from the shorter girl at her side. Short, wiry red hair kept in place by some sort of hair, band, thing. He was always horrible at telling anything about women fashion apart, let alone upper class trivialities such as these. She was draped in a dress of yellow and cream, the yellow fabric extremely sheer over the darker color that consisted of the actual material. It gathered at her ankles, a light blue and flimsy looking cardigan embroidered with yellow flowers accompanied the look even in this hot summer weather. Her mouth was set to a thin line of mild irritation and boredom, her eyes as grey as her father's and remained impassive as she stood through Carson's introduction.

The girl also thin as a pole and flat as paper, he added as an afterthought.

The other girl was shorter, coming up only to her sister's shoulder. Whereas the elder sister was stone incarnate, already the spirit of the younger was breaking through.

Her hair was a deep brown and curly as well, however it was kept long instead of short. Hastily pulled back off her shoulders the girl stood without hair decoration, and was clad in a more conservative, collared frock. It was off white, with three buttons stopping mid-chest level. A black belt sat on her waist, embroidered in a more abstract design of swirls and shapes and colors than that of her sister. It also stopped halfway between her knees and ankles, sensible ash-colored boots covered the rest of her legs. A far cry from the elder sister's fashionable strap back pumps. Yet the plainness of her outfit balanced out well the vibrant girl underneath. The figure was as curvy as the other was straight, and simply looked more _alive_. Her eyes were a deep blue and quite large, sparkling at this encounter.

"The taller is his Lordship's middle daughter Lady Edith, the one to her side is the youngest, Lady Sybil. Her Ladyship is currently residing in London for the season with the eldest daughter, Lady Mary."

Edith stiffened at this statement, now very much bristling. Sybil ignored her sister, looking excitedly between the car and Tom. "This is the new driver PaPa? Now we can drive around in your motors! You promised to give the first ride to me!"

Edith broke her facade to give the younger a sharp look.

"Honestly Sybil, you act so immature sometimes. Prancing around and finding an excuse to be happy about any little thing. He's just a chauffeur who drives a motor car. Why you would even want to wheel around in a metal cage is beyond me. I don't even see the point of us standing out to greet some employee since I'm not even supposed to be stuck in the middle of this countryside while Mary is having all the fun dancing with Patrick-"

"Rant a little more Edith, the Green-Eyed monster is almost here-"

"At least I haven't been driving everyone inside up the wall with your nonsense about finally riding in a motor car-"

"It's called unbridled joy and anticipation. Maybe you should try it-"

"Sorry I chose not to act like an imbecile today-"

"I never would have guessed-"

"Girls! That's enough."

Tom thanked Lord Grantham's intervention, halting the bickering before it erupted into well, something probably very loud and screeching. He resisted a shudder at the thought of his mother not stopping at Colleen and instead supplying another daughter into the Branson Clan.

The redhead gave a very unladylike muffled shriek of frustration as she turned heel and stomped back inside. Sybil rolled her eyes at Edith's display, quite used to the moody outbursts as of late.

Lord Grantham shook his head as he watched Edith retreat, a frown still on his face. "God knows what sets her off these days." "I'm sure it's nothing to do with you my Lord. Lady Edith must have been flustered from the heat and... Excitement of the situation." Carson ever the diplomat.

Both Sybil and Tom scoffed under their breaths at the butler's excuse, stopping short as his eyes traveled to the two. Sybil met Carson's gaze head on with steely determination, while Tom chose to look up and away.

_Lovely roof spires up there._

Her sister's mini-outburst did little to rebuke Sybil's enthusiasm, her eyes now set on her father. "PaPa please may I still go for a ride? Edith started the quarrel."

The Earl of Grantham shook his head. "I'm afraid you're in the fault as well my dear. Egging your sister on, in front of a new employee no less. Ones in our position must be expected to maintain a complacent attitude befitting of our rank at all times when necessary."

_Lovely craftsmanship. So pointy too. _

"Not today Sybil. Your mother wouldn't be pleased to know her two youngest daughters still can't step out the door ten feet and act civil."

"But PaPa!"

"Inside. Carson if you may."

"Certainly my Lord."

He walked up to the girl and clasped Sybil's elbow between his hands, leading the walk towards the doors Edith escaped to not moments before. "Come along now Lady Sybil."

Seeing the loss in the situation Sybil turned her head away from the two older men, twisting her neck back to catch Tom's eyes. "Until next time Branson! Don't you dare let Edith take a step near that car until I've had my drive!"

He gave a small nod as well as gulp, somewhat believing that there would be consequence indeed for allowing her sister to ride before her.

* * *

It had been a week since his introduction to three of the Crawley clan, the wife and eldest daughter still off somewhere in London gallivanting or whatever these posh folk do. After the two daughters unceremoniously retreated back into the house, he had yet to see them outside. They couldn't still be _punished_ could they? Did Lords even punish their daughters? It had been a week since Branson's services had been requested by anyone but his Lordship...

Yes the title came a little easier now, even if Branson concluded there would always be a bit of hesitance in address. Chalk it up to his Irish spirit.

Branson was leaning over the opened hood of the very Renault he drove up to Downton's main gates, trusty wrench in had and green coat draped over the wooden work table to his right. The doors were left open in hopes of some breeze to be found in mid-July, Branson thoroughly engrossed in his work. This job was actually quite the catch from his conclusions, being able to be around cars and work amongst himself a majority of the time. One of the main reasons Branson grew distant from the mechanic shops in Dublin or Liverpool was the abundance of people coming in an out, or worse yet meddling with his own directions and projects. Few things in life peeved the Irishman more than having to repeat an explanation to an ignorant coworker, or clear out the mess an uneducated man made in the engine before the car was given to Branson's immaculate care.

Such concentration he had in his work was exactly why the shy steps of two others were left unnoticed.

_Might need to pick up some oil in the village soon. If they even sell oil._

Branson would have to inquire about where in a small Yorkshire farming village would motor oil reveal itself.

He could just ask Carson himself, yet the image of the unsmiling stern-faced butler always seemed to unnerve Branson from his thoughts. His rare excursions into the main house always brought him into the middle of what he would describe as organized chaos. Maids and footmen flitted about in a sort of synchronized pattern, never managing to bump into the other even though such collisions in a small enclosed space seemed near inevitable.

* * *

Branson of course managed to run into someone the first time he stepped into the hall as an employee.

The goal was to inquire about how exactly the post worked at Downton. As he slipped through the hall with the intention to make a right towards the offices of Carson or the Housekeeper Mrs. Hughes(the latter a much more agreeable figure who wouldn't make him feel like asking a question was akin to questioning the British king himself), Branson found himself smashing right up against a tall, lanky fellow who held a cigarette in one hand and small tea tray in his left.

The tray clattered down to the floor, the silver kettle and cup thankfully of a more common variety as to not chip and shatter upon union with the ground.

Branson squatted down and began to pick up the tray and kettle, looking up at the black-haired man.

"Sorry 'bout that-"

"As you should be." Eyes were cast down at Branson with a look of bemused superiority. "Yet if you drive as well as you walk I feel like I should inform Mr. Carson of the potential consequences in hiring a mick for a chauffeur."

Tom backed up at his words, brow narrowed as he wordlessly handed back the fallen items. Yes this was his first encounter with the illustrious Thomas Barrow. Of course such exchanges weren't uncommon to Branson, who chose to shrug off most insults after learning the hard way in one too many fist fights. Yet it was just the tone this Mr. Barrow chose to unleash.

_A pretty boy git if I ever saw one._

Branson chose not to reply and turned back round the way he came, not before hearing a raspy, female snicker from a voice that seemed to come from behind Thomas.

"Now if only the rest of his kind could learn to bugger off..."

* * *

"WOOF WOOF!"

Branson leaped up with a start, the top of his head banging on the metal tin that was the hood.

He hissed in pain as the wrench was dropped to the ground, hands over the small bump now fast forming over his crown. He took a spin around the garage, choosing to mutter a few choice utterances under his breath instead of yelling out a string of fragments that would have warranted a soapy mouth from his mother even hundreds of miles away.

He spun around for a minute or two until the pain receded, slowly remembering there was in fact a noise that broke his mental reverie in the first place. He halted at the open doors, now face to face with a yellow Labrador and familiar blue-eye girl, eyes wide in worry at the moment.

He tilted his head with a wince.

"Milady?"

At once Branson was blasted with the fiery blaze of determination that permanently housed itself behind the youngest daughter's optical lobe. The azure irises let loose a spark and sped out directly to Branson's own pale blue eyes. Few were impervious to her gaze.

"Start up the fastest motor and tie my luggage on top." She gestured quickly to the two boxes stacked at her left side. "Athena will ride in the back with me." The lab let out a sharp bark in agreement. "We will depart at once and keep driving until the Scottish border is crossed. I have left a note hidden in my wardrobe so our escape will go undetected until evening tonight when I am not present for dinner. I have also managed to smuggle out old jewelry we can trade for money or supplies on our journey. They were presents from my Aunt Rosamund so no one will miss them." Sybil raised her voice in what she assumed was a Lord Grantham-esque timber of authority as she shook the jingling bag.

"Any questions?" Hands now on her hips and a chin jutted out, Sybil Crawley meant business.

A few moments passed before Branson wearily rose an eyebrow at the girl in front of him.

"_Whatever for_ is usually a good place to begin milady."

Thirteen year old Sybil brought her head back a few inches, puzzlement now encroaching on her well planned out 'General Crawley' act.

"Well... You're... Why you're running away with me of course!"

_..._

**_WHAT?!_**

* * *

The end of this chapter was fun to write. Also hello! Second chapter huzzah. Written entirely on my phone in-between work shifts today. It was a slight struggle to write up to this point, but hopefully now the writing will start to flow better since it'll be me writing scenes and progressing their storyline. As mentioned already tis 1910! Branson was born late 1890, Sybil 1897. I believe a good and lovely romance starts with friendship and mini "adventures" first, so that's more what we're going to follow down the road here. We will eventually catch up with 1913 and the proper storyline where such beginnings of this love story starts don't you worry. Of course with the plot I have in mind. (Still will be WW1 and such don't worry). Hope you enjoyed like always, and I apologize if I write "Irish" horribly like I probably did last chapter. I tried to scour the Internet but it's a tad difficult to google search "how to write Irish" no? So of course open to suggestions if anyone has. I mean no offense! Have a nice night/day everyone. And many thanks for the reviews and follows already. Means a lot c:


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